Page 19 of Strength in Submission
I tilt her chin back toward me. "And why am I just hearing about this now?"
"Because you've always treated me like a kid," she says. "Like Ashley's annoying little friend who you had to tolerate."
"That was an act," I admit. "Had to keep myself in check somehow. Don't think I didn't notice you, Violet. Every time youcame around, every swimsuit at the pool parties, every short skirt at family dinners... I noticedallof it."
Her breath hitches. "And now?"
"Now I don't have to pretend anymore." I trace my thumb across her bottom lip. "Now I can show you exactly what I've been thinking about doing to you all these years."
The door to the clubhouse bangs open, and we spring apart as Ripper, the club president, walks in with Kane, one of the full patches, at his heels. They're deep in conversation, but Ripper pauses when he spots us.
"Whip," he acknowledges with a nod. "This must be the girl Max and Cruel have been talking about."
I place a possessive hand on Violet's lower back. "This is Violet. She's staying with us for a while."
Ripper looks her over, taking in the bruise on her face with narrowed eyes. "Someone do that to you, darlin'?"
Violet stiffens but holds her ground. "My ex. Won't happen again."
"Damn right it won't," Ripper says, looking at me meaningfully. "Club's got your back now."
"Appreciate that," Violet says, and I feel a swell of pride at how she's handling herself.
"Whip, need to talk to you," Ripper continues. "Club business."
"Give me a minute," I tell him, turning back to Violet once Ripper and Kane have moved to the back room. "I've gotta handle this. Why don't you head upstairs, take a shower if you want? I'll be up as soon as I can."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Go do what you need to do. I'll be waiting."
As I watch her walk up the stairs, hips swaying enticingly in her jeans, reality hits me hard. I'm in deep with this woman. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Chapter Nine
VIOLET
The hot water cascades down my back, washing away the lingering scent of motorcycle exhaust and leather from my ride with Cruel. I close my eyes, letting the steam envelop me as I replay the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Yesterday, I was in an apartment I shared with a man who cheated on me, then hit me. Today, I'm in a motorcycle club's shower, wearing Santiago's—Whip's—t-shirt, with the ghost of his touches still tingling on my skin.
Life comes at you fast, I guess.
I gently prod at my cheek, wincing at the tenderness. The bruise is an ugly purple-yellow now, but the swelling has gone down thanks to the ice and painkillers. Part of me is embarrassed that Santiago had to see me like this—that everyone at the club had to see me like this. Another part knows it's what brought us together after years of silent wanting each other.
I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in one of the surprisingly soft towels hanging on the rack. Santiago's bathroom is cleaner than I expected, stocked with decent shampoo and body wash. No fruity scents or fancy brands, just basic men's products that smell like him.
After drying off, I realize I don't have any clean clothes. I've been wearing the same jeans since the day before yesterday, and while Santiago's t-shirt is comfortable, I can't exactly walk around in just that.
A knock on the bathroom door startles me.
"Vi?" It's Santiago's voice, low and warm. "You decent?"
"Just wrapped in a towel," I call back, clutching the fabric tighter against my chest.
There's a pause, and I can almost feel him considering that image through the door.
"I brought you some clothes," he says finally. "Cruel had one of the club girls drop some stuff off for you. Can I come in?"
"Sure."
